


Working From Home

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: The Ambush series [12]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M, Happy Birthday Hobbes!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 06:16:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20223184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: Happy birthday, hobbeshalftail3469!HobbesIsAKitten were in London, having seen the Souvenir, dreaming of Tom and squeeing and plotting, and this happened. I hope I did it justice, Hobbes!The premise was: following on from Robin seducing Strike as Venetia in Working Away and Playing Away, how would he turn the tables? You don’t have to have read them, but they are obliquely referenced.





	Working From Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hobbeshalftail3469](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbeshalftail3469/gifts).

The film credits rolled slowly to a close, and Strike gave Robin a fond, gentle nudge. “You awake?”

“Mm, just about.” She raised her heavy head from his shoulder and smiled up at him, the soft, sleepy smile that still made his heart flip after all this time.

Strike hauled himself to his feet and gathered up their mugs and the empty crisp bag and moved to Robin’s little kitchenette.

“Just leave ’em in the sink,” Robin yawned, waving a vague arm. “I’ll sort ’em in the morning.” She clambered to her feet too, wrapped in the blanket they’d shared, and watched as he pulled on his coat and checked his pockets for keys and cigarettes. Her bottom lip jutted a little in a tiny pout.

“Sure you can’t stay?”

He moved across to her, a soft grin on his face. “I really do have to call in and see Shanker,” he said regretfully. “And I might as well go on back to Denmark Street as haul all the way back here and wake you up again. You’ll be asleep two minutes after I leave, look at you.” His gaze roved over her fondly, bundled up in the blanket, her eyes heavy.

Robin nodded. He was right. She’d been up at five for days, thanks to Redhead’s new early Pilates classes and Mr Suspicious’s conviction that she was meeting her imaginary lover for pre-breakfast trysts. It had been a long week.

Strike wrapped her in his arms and kissed the top of her head. “Why don’t you take tomorrow morning off? Sleep in? We’ve got no clients till after lunch, and I can man the phone. Half-day Friday, and then we can go to the pub.”

Robin, who had slumped against him, her face pressed to his chest, breathing in his warm smell, straightened up. “I’m okay. I’ll be there by nine.”

He drew back a little and looked at her. “You don’t have to keep proving yourself,” he told her gently. “You’ve worked 12 hours straight today, you barely stopped for lunch. Just don’t set your alarm, hey, and I’ll see you when I see you. Please.”

Robin hesitated, then nodded. She felt like she could sleep for a week. “Okay.”

Strike grinned. “Good.” He pulled his cigarettes and lighter from his pocket, ready for when he reached street level, and turned towards the door. His eye fell on the door to the spare room, still stood off its hinges, leaning against the wall just inside the room. It had had to be removed to get her previous flatmate’s huge dressing table through the doorway, and had never been put back. “You ever going to fix that?”

Robin waved an arm vaguely again. “One day,” she said. “It’s too heavy for me. Don’t know a handyman, and I don’t want any random guy in here. Keep meaning to ring Ilsa and see who they use, but it’s not urgent.”

“I could—”

Robin shook her head. “You’re busy enough. If I can’t find anyone, I’ll make my brothers do it when they next come down. It’s really not urgent.”

Strike nodded. He pulled her close again, and kissed the top of her head. “Sleep well.”

Robin eased away a little, tilted her face up and kissed him properly. She hummed a little and pressed closer, her mouth opening for him, but all too soon Strike drew back, his eyes dark, his mouth curling wickedly. “Don’t start something you can’t finish, Ellacott.”

“I can finish.” But her answering cheeky grin was broken by another yawn.

He kissed her forehead. “No, you can’t. I have to go and meet Shanker, and you’re going to be asleep before I get this cigarette lit. Go to bed.”

Robin chuckled and nodded, yawning yet again. She let him out, and heard him hovering as she locked the door and slid the chain before his footsteps headed down the hall to the lift. Smiling fondly to herself, she stumbled to her bedroom and flopped onto the bed. _Must remove bra and brush teeth, _she tried to tell herself as sleep claimed her.

...

“Ilsa? It’s me.”

“Corm! To what do I owe the pleasure of such an early call?”

Strike turned his wrist, pushing his shirt sleeve up to peer at his watch. Ash fell from the end of his cigarette onto the pile of papers across his desk, and he hurriedly brushed it away and reached for the ashtray.

“Sorry, Ils, didn’t realise it was so early.”

“No worries, I just got to the office anyway. Got to be in court prompt at nine, and I need to run through some notes again and make sure my dozy co-counsel has had at least two coffees.”

Strike laughed. He could imagine Ilsa demanding perfection from those around her at work. Relaxed and easygoing at home, she took her job seriously and expected those around her to do the same.

“So what can I do for you?”

“It’s for Robin, really. She needs a handyman, got a door that needs rehanging. She keeps saying she’s going to sort it, but she never gets around to it. Can you recommend anyone?”

“I can lend you Nick. Surely that’s something you two could manage? One to hold and one to screw?”

“I’ve offered to do it, but she says I’ve got enough on.”

“Ah, she’s being silly. Take you ten minutes with two of you. When are you next going to the pub together? You could just call in on the way there.”

“Yeah, true. Thanks.”

“Mm,” Ilsa’s voice had gone dreamy. “Maybe I’ll come and watch. I like watching Nick doing DIY stuff with his clever doctory hands.”

Strike snorted. “You two,” he said fondly.

“Yeah, he even bought a tool belt thing, once he twigged I like watching. Wears it over his jeans when he’s fixing stuff up. It’s rather sexy.”

“Ilsa, stop, I’m begging you.”

“Maybe I could get him some of those shorts with all the loops and pockets. Few grease marks—”

“I’m hanging up now!”

Ilsa giggled. “Okay, bye. And thank you, those images will get me though a long and boring day in court.”

Strike laughed. “Do I need to text your husband and warn him?”

“Oh, God, no. Leave me the element of surprise. We’ve been married forever, he doesn’t get many surprises these days.” He could practically hear her wink.

Strike wondered if she was obliquely referring to their weekend in Cardiff when she and Robin had dressed as femmes fatales and seduced their men in a bar. True to the spirit of the game, it had never been discussed since that night. He idly rubbed his wrist as he remembered. It had been a rather pleasurable evening.

“Right, I really am going now.” Grinning, Strike ended the call. He finished his cigarette and ran through the following week in his mind, wondering which night was best for a spot of DIY and a pint with his old mate.

He lit another cigarette and idly thought about that weekend in Cardiff. A plan was starting to form in his head. He wondered if Robin would find watching DIY sexy, too.

He sat for several minutes, lost in thought, finishing his cigarette and his now-cold coffee, and then he picked up his phone again. He tapped out a text and sent it, and got to his feet. He grabbed his wallet and keys and left the office, locking up behind him. There was a spring in his step as he descended the stairs. He was pretty sure the hardware shop two streets across was still trading.

...

Robin woke slowly, well-rested but uncomfortable. Her mouth tasted gross and her bra was digging into the side of her breast painfully. At some point in the night she had managed to crawl under the duvet, but she was still wearing yesterday’s T-shirt and leggings.

She yawned. Wasn’t often she collapsed into bed fully dressed when she was sober. She stretched, and grimaced at the feel of the twisted bra. She sat up and pulled it off, undoing it and pulling it out through her sleeves, massaging the sore place on the side of her breast where the wire had dug in.

_Right. Teeth, shower, cup of tea... What time is it? _She picked up her mobile from her bedside table. It was almost out of charge, but told her it was 9.30am.

Her eyebrows shot up. She really had been tired. Overslept by two hours.

There was a text from Strike. She opened it. “Found you a handyman. Trustworthy and reliable. He’ll be there at half ten. Cx”

Robin squeaked. She had an hour to make herself presentable for a strange man in her flat and tidy up a bit. She scrambled out of bed.

...

When the knock on her door came promptly at half past ten, Robin jumped a little. She’d had a mad hour, leaping into the shower, then remembering she’d need to pay the handyman and so would need cash, and jumping out again after a lightning quick wash. She’d hesitated over a bra, highly reluctant to put something structured back on after having slept in one. Eventually she’d chosen a crop top-style one, and pulled on some of her gym clothes, fitted exercise leggings and a loose top that she could wear for flat-cleaning.

She’d dashed down to the cashpoint with her hair still damp, already sweating a little in the early summer heat, wondering vaguely why Strike had decided to send her a handyman. He must surely have picked up on her reluctance to have a strange man in her flat, and therefore she knew she could trust him to have found someone he trusted. Her scalp still prickled at the thought, though.

She’d got some money out - _how much? Better get plenty, just in case_ \- and scampered back to her flat. She’d whisked around tidying, feeling hot and bothered as the day warmed up, fretting a little but trusting Strike not to send her anyone dodgy.

And now here this strange man was, at her door, having somehow got in off the street already and known which was her flat. Her heart sped up a little as she moved to the door to peer through the spy hole. She was deliberately make-up free, her hair scraped back into a ponytail. She didn’t want to look in any way alluring or available.

She peeped, and relief washed over her at the sight of Strike’s face. Of course he’d known she’d be nervous. He’d come to chaperone. She flung open the door, and her greeting died on her lips as she took in the sight of him.

He was resting one hand casually on the door frame. He wore a white T-shirt (which stretched across the muscles in his shoulder where his arm was raised, Robin couldn’t help but notice) and dark blue fitted jeans that she didn’t often see him in. The boots he wore were a little scruffy. Round his waist was a tool belt that contained a hammer and a couple of screwdrivers, and a few other tools. He smelled different too, an aftershave that she didn’t recognise and...wood shavings? How had he managed to smell like that?

She realised she was staring, and hurriedly stepped back. “Er, come in,” she murmured.

He stepped forward and stuck out his hand. Bemused, still staring, Robin shook it.

“Mike Sergeant,” he said, briskly. “People call me Sarge. You got a door needs fixing?”

His accent was just ever so slightly cockney. Suppressing a sudden desire to giggle, Robin turned away hurriedly. What was going on?

“Um, yes, over here,” she moved to the door of the spare room. “It just needs rehanging. The screws are in that jar on the bookcase.”

He eyed the door and nodded. “Leave it with me.”

“Thanks,” Robin replied. “Er, cup of tea?”

“Ta.” Sarge moved through into the spare room and picked up the car of screws.

Robin retreated hastily to the kitchenette and tried not to stare at him. What was he doing?

He turned back towards her and she swung away hurriedly to fill the kettle. He was clearly here to fix the door himself, but he’d pretended to have a different name—

Suddenly her confused brain caught up and it all slotted into place. This was her game, turned back on her. She’d given him a fantasy woman picking him up in a bar. He was giving her the sexy handyman, complete with Levi’s and tool belt. A thrill of excitement ran down her spine. She set the kettle back on its cradle and clicked it on, turned to reach down two mugs from the cupboard.

In the spare room, Strike had realised the slight drawback to this plan, in that he was going to have to actually fix the door, and without Nick’s help, meaning he was going to have to hold it in position and screw the screws at the same time. While Robin watched.

She had looked delightedly bemused, but was playing along. He liked this Robin, natural and make-up free, in her gym clothes, hair tied back. Strike lifted the door from its place by the wall and set it gently at an angle to the door frame, bending the hinges into place, then pulled the first couple of screws from the jar. He could hear the kettle boiling behind him as he slotted a couple of screws in through the holes in the top hinge, then lifted the door a little. He propped it on the edge of his boot, pulled a Phillips head screwdriver from his tool belt - useful things, no wonder workmen had them - and loosely screwed the first two screws into place.

“Um...Sarge? Your tea’s here.” Robin’s voice behind him was tentative.

Strike glanced round. She was holding out a slightly chipped mug of tea.

He stared at it for just a moment. It was pale and milky. Builder’s tea. He’d have laid a considerable bet that it contained at least two sugars.

His gaze flicked to hers, and she looked back at him, the picture of innocence. She was playing along. She understood. Desire surged, and Strike hid a wicked grin as he turned back to screw the top screw tighter so he could let go of the door a moment.

“Ta,” he said again, taking the mug. Sarge was a man of few words, he had decided. He wasn’t completely confident of his accent, despite having spent a lot of time around Shanker over the years.

“I’ll, er, just be out here, doing some housework.” Robin’s voice was slightly breathy. Taciturn Sarge nodded.

“Righto.” He set the mug of tea on the floor next to him, and turned back to the job at hand.

It wasn’t long before he had got all the screws loosely in place. Then began the task of moving the door this way and that, tightening and loosening screws until he was happy the door swung smoothly and fitted neatly into the jamb. He went into the room and tried the lock to make sure it fitted smoothly. The mechanism was a little stiff. He swung the door open again and pulled a small can of WD40 from his tool belt.

He was aware the whole time of the searing glances he was getting from Robin that she was trying to hide, hurriedly looking away every time he happened to turn in her direction. But the heat in the air was palpable, and he was having a hard time focusing on the task at hand. Their eyes met briefly, and the desire in hers caused a surge of arousal through him. His fitted jeans were becoming uncomfortably tight.

Robin was trying to clean her kitchenette, but was mesmerised by handyman Strike. Sarge. His T-shirt had pulled tightly across his shoulders as he’d reached for the door, and when she’d given him his tea she had smelled him again, hotter now as the day warmed up and he got to work. He smelled spicier than normal, and still, somehow, of wood shavings. The muscles in his back and shoulders tensed and rippled as he hefted the door and wielded the screwdriver. Desire flooded her as she watched him covertly, trying to remember to try to look like she was cleaning.

When he went into the room and started fiddling with the lock, she paused and took a shaky breath. She was really enjoying this game, and hoped this morning was going to go the way of their Venetia evenings. She wondered if he had any specific plans, and shuddered at the thought.

Strike stepped back out onto the living room. He picked up his tea and paused to admire his handiwork. He took a huge gulp from the mug before he remembered it was horribly milky, but to his amusement he could barely taste the milk under all the sugar. He forced himself to drink it, deciding this was the kind of tea Sarge would like.

He glanced across at Robin, and almost caught her eye as she turned away swiftly to run her cloth across the far counter that he was pretty sure she’d already wiped once. Smirking a little, he put his mug down on the coffee table and moved back to the door. All that remained was to tighten all the screws.

Robin turned back in time to watch him make swift work of tightening up all the screws. Mesmerised, she just stared as the muscles all up his arm and across his shoulder flexed as he screwed each one firmly into the wood, bracing the door with his other hand. The hand holding the screwdriver twisted, his wrist flexing, the dark hairs contrasting with the smooth skin of the inside of his forearm. Handy hands. Robin whimpered a little under her breath, desire flooding her.

As he finished, she meant to turn away, but somehow ended up still watching shamelessly as he slotted the screwdriver back into his belt and removed the WD40 again. He applied a small amount to each hinge, then stood back. He swung the door a couple of times and nodded, satisfied.

He turned back towards Robin and met her heated gaze. He picked up his empty tea mug and moved slowly across the room towards her, his eyes never leaving hers.

Robin realised she was holding her breath as he drew closer. He put the mug on the counter between them and stood and regarded her passively.

“Anything else you need?” he asked, and the edge of something in his voice made desire clench hard in her belly suddenly. There was a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead, a curl clinging damply to his skin, and a smudge of grease on his hands. He smelt of spice, of sweat, of sawdust and WD40.

“Um...” she murmured. This was the moment, she knew, that she should say something saucy about some other task she needed doing, come up with a double entendre about screwing that would lead to the bedroom, but her mind had gone blank.

The tiniest hint of amusement twitched Strike’s top lip. There was a little thrill to being the one to make Robin feel off balance. It was the other way around when she played Venetia. He stepped around the counter, moving into her personal space, seeing the way her pupils dilated and her breath caught.

“Then how would you like to pay?” he asked huskily.

Robin swallowed hard and thought about her purse, bulging with the money she had got from the cashpoint, just behind her in the drawer.

“I—I haven’t got any cash,” she managed, her heart beating faster and hot thrills running up her spine. “I was wondering if we could...come to some arrangement.” She laid a hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat through his T-shirt. He smelled incredible, hot and spicy and rugged. She was so hot suddenly, sweat beading on her forehead even though the window was slightly open. The day was promising to be a scorcher, but she knew it wasn’t just the weather that was responsible for her rise in temperature.

“That...could work,” he said, his voice a deep rumble, and kissed her.

Robin hummed a little and pulled him closer, her hands fisting in the front of his T-shirt. He even tasted subtly different, of the sweet tea she’d made him, and she growled deep in her throat and kissed him harder.

His hands slid between them for a moment, undoing the tool belt. It fell heavily to the floor, and then he turned her and lifted her, and Robin found herself sat on the kitchen counter with Strike - Sarge - still kissing her, and now pushing himself between her legs, his groin pressing to hers, nudging his erection against her though his jeans and her leggings. His hands slid around her back and pulled her against him, her breasts meeting his chest.

Robin broke free and drew back a little. “Wait,” she gasped. “Bedroom.” He stepped back and she slid down off the counter and grabbed his hand, pulling him through to her room. She dragged him towards the bed, and turned to look at him.

Sarge opened his mouth to speak but Robin held up a hand. “I pay you to work, not talk.”

He raised one eyebrow just slightly, and Robin remembered that she wasn’t in fact paying him at all, and she nearly giggled. She forced the mirth down, tilted her chin up and stared at him, wondering how far he’d take the game. He stood, waiting for a cue from her, his eyes dark, watching her, not moving.

Robin moved towards him, her eyes dropping to the front of his jeans. She stepped closer, her hands between them undoing his belt and popping open the button. She pushed his jeans down a little and slid her hands into his boxers, her eyes still on his. He groaned deep in his throat as she gently closed around his straining erection and slid him free. She caressed him for a moment, enjoying his harsh breathing as she stroked along his length, and then she let go and stepped back.

“Let’s see how handy those hands are, then,” she murmured with a cheeky wink. “Carry on.”

She wondered if he would hesitate, if he wanted to be in charge, but he obeyed, his hand moving to his cock and starting to stroke as she had done. His dark eyes watched her watching him, and his breathing stuttered a little as his hand slid.

Slowly, Robin pulled her loose gym top off over her head. She had forgotten that she was wearing the crop top rather than a bra, her breasts soft and round in the stretchy fabric, and Sarge groaned at the sight of her clad in just the taut cotton, her nipples clearly outlined. Robin pulled her hair free of its ponytail and stood for a moment, watching him. His hand moved a little more firmly now, and his breathing was harsh.

“Careful,” she murmured, a lazy grin on her face. “Don’t want you getting too carried away.”

He just grunted at her, his eyes black, still watching her. Robin slid her leggings down and stepped out of them, pulling each foot free, enjoying the way his eyes roved over her body, down her legs. The heat in the room was building, and sweat sheened her skin even without the covering of clothes. She wondered if he felt as hot as she did. Eyeing his flushed face and beads of sweat on his forehead, she decided he probably did.

Robin’s hands crossed to take hold of the sides of her crop top under her arms, and Sarge gave a low growl of protest. She paused, eyes on him. “No?”

He shook his head, and she grinned, leaving the crop top in place. “Duly noted.” She pushed her knickers down instead and stepped out of them.

He groaned again at the sight of her golden curls, damp with her arousal. The hand moving on his cock slowed. His breathing was harsh and his dark eyes a little wild, nearing the edge of control. Robin stepped back and leaned lazily against the wall, her hands moving to cup her breasts through the crop top, her fingers stroking across her nipples, making her shudder, her eyes never leaving his. She moaned a little, so aroused she ached.

Sarge dropped his hand to his side. His cock jutted, straining and engorged, and his eyes locked to hers as he stepped towards her. He stripped off his T-shirt as he approached and Robin whimpered a little at the sight of him, commanding and so masculine with his dark swathe of hair and his eyes boring into hers. He said nothing, but he was taking control of the situation. In two strides he was almost against her.

Robin found herself raising her hand and planting her palm against his chest. He froze at once, eyes still locked to hers, waiting for permission to proceed.

That was all Robin needed. Her hand slid across his chest, and he closed the last gap between them and kissed her again, hard but briefly. Almost before she could kiss him back, he pulled his mouth away again. Without uttering a word, without warning, he planted his hands against the wall, dropped to his knees and pressed his mouth against the triangle of curls between her legs, his tongue sliding against her clit.

Robin cried out and her knees buckled as pleasure jolted through her, but his hands moved to her hips, holding her up. She clutched at his hair as he laved his tongue across her, and she sagged a little, her thighs parting for him so he could bury his face deeper against her.

The unexpectedness and relentlessness of it were her undoing. His hands firm on her hips, holding her in place, he urged her on with his mouth and tongue, stroking, sucking, and before she could even think he had driven her over the edge so that she was gasping and bucking against him, her body rocking, shaking with pleasure.

Slowly he drew back as Robin gasped and shuddered. He let go of her hips, and somehow Robin managed to stay standing as he hauled himself back to his feet. A soft smile curved his mouth as he looked down at her, ever so slightly smug, and Robin grinned up at him, still trying to catch her breath.

His hands moved to explore the crop top, tracing the shape of her, stroking the smooth cotton. Robin smiled lazily as he caressed her gently, slow now, but still dark-eyed and silent.

Eventually he hooked his fingers under the edge and slowly, gently, drew the garment up over her head. Smiling, Robin slid her arms out and then moved to slide his jeans and boxers down. His cock twitched as she brushed against it, but he was in no hurry now. He sat on the edge of the bed and slowly removed his clothes and the prosthesis, then reached out and drew Robin gently to him. She slid onto him, straddling his lap with his erection pressed between them, and they kissed and kissed for a while until Robin felt the slow, aching roll of desire rising within her again. She moaned a little and rocked against him, and he growled low in his throat again and moved his hands back to her breasts.

Robin dropped her head back with a groan of delight, her fingers stroking across the muscles in his shoulders she had been admiring all morning. Sarge’s head lowered to her chest, his tongue gently caressing her nipple, his hands cupping and stroking.

His hands slid to her hips and gently encouraged her back, and she slid off him and climbed onto the bed. He turned and crawled up onto the bed after her, arching over her, one hand on her shoulder gently pressing her down onto the pillows on her back, his eyes always watching her, following her movements.

Robin lay back and he moved to kneel between her legs. Dark eyes on hers as he lowered himself over her, making her shiver with anticipation. He had still said nothing, barely uttered a sound, but his gaze was mesmerising. Her hands sought him, stroking across his chest and around his back to pull at him, and then he was sliding smoothly into her, filling her, making her groan with pleasure. A grunt escaped him as he pressed his hips to hers, as deep as he could get, and Robin could feel the slight tremble in his whole body as he held still, arched over her for a moment before he began to move.

Robin whimpered and clutched at him as his hips undulated against hers. There was something about his self-control, his silence, his dark eyes boring into hers that was deeply erotic. He moved over and above her, slowly, never breaking eye contact, building her pleasure, driving her steadily on. His breathing grew harsher and sweat slicked his skin and hers, the heat between them building as did the heat of the day, skin sliding on skin.

Robin drew shuddering breaths as pleasure and anticipation built. His gaze was cloudy now, his body trembling, and she knew he was getting close. She let her head drop back, let the pleasure take her, let it swell and break, her back arching as her orgasm rolled through her, and Sarge dropped to his elbows, his voice finally breaking into grunts as he spilled into her, his hips jerking against hers.

He slumped against her, their sweat-slicked skin pressed together, and Robin panted and held him close as she tried to get her breath back. He gently eased off her and lay next to her, his arm draped heavily over her, and Robin turned her head to him and smiled, satisfied and relaxed.

He smiled back, then slowly drifted his eyes closed, and Robin turned her head again, grinning at the ceiling. He was staying in character. That was how the game worked.

Deeply sated, exhausted and spent, she drifted slowly into a doze.

...

Robin woke with a slight start. Sunlight streamed in her window and for a moment she was disoriented. It was the middle of the day and she was stretched out naked on her bed, alone.

Memories flooded back and she sat up. She couldn’t see her handyman. She clambered off the bed, scooping up her blanket, and went through to the main room of her flat with the blanket wrapped around her. There was no sign of him anywhere, no sign that he had even existed except for the neatly closed door to the spare room.

An hour later, freshly showered and smartly dressed, with a delicious, sated tenderness in her groin, Robin opened the outer door to the office on Denmark Street, a tray of two coffees in her hand.

“Hiya,” she called, as always, and heard Strike’s answering rumble. Heart fluttering, she hung up her jacket, dumped her coffee on her desk and went through to his inner office.

Strike was at his desk, case notes spread in front of him. He wore a normal work shirt and trousers. The only sign of anything different was the small glass of whisky next to the ashtray to his right. Robin set his coffee next to it.

He sat back in his chair, cigarette in hand, and grinned at her. “Good lie-in?”

Robin flushed. “Yes, thank you. I needed it.”

“And the handyman?” Strike tapped ash into the ashtray and picked up his glass.

“Yup, turned up on time. Door all fixed.” Robin grinned. “I think I’ll be using him again.”

Strike nodded, giving nothing away beyond a tiny, tiny smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “I can always send him round.”

“Thanks. Any clients lined up for this afternoon?”

“Mr Suspicious at four. Wants to see photo evidence of Redhead actually going to the gym.”

Robin nodded. “I’ll get some pictures printed.” Her gaze lingered on him for a moment, so sexy as he leaned back in his chair, his hair riotous, his body relaxed and sated, cigarette and whisky in hand. He couldn’t have looked more post-coital if he’d tried.

“Right, then,” she said briskly, and turned and headed back to her half of the office.

Strike watched her go, and grinned.

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know why, because I had no problem calling Robin Venetia all the way through the others, but I found using Strike’s “fantasy” name in this weeeeeird. Hope it worked.


End file.
